Regretful Moments

This poignant poem was written by Roy Smith who lives in New Zealand …

Regretful Moments

Poised in time they appear as phantoms to disrupt our thoughts
Moments of regret they appear as yesterday, so clear.
As if the passing of long lost years is not enough to hide
And blazes ever to reconstruct the weakness that is ours.
As if a clanging bell is tolling from above, to push us, to roll the dice,
Can I not be spared such clear reminders from the past?
Or is it God’s way with mortal man to pay this price.

These are not of recent times, forbid, but many decades back,
Some from childhood, when a justified excuse, would remedy;
Then later when we think of friends, a better choice of words, perhaps,
Would some higher order tap us on the shoulder, to instruct?
If we thought to know in later life a heavy toll would manifest so fearlessly
Surely we would mend our ways and give more mind to this,
And study more the hurt we did dispense so thoughtlessly.

Are we blind at times to feelings not our own, but worse indeed?
When we think of poignant times, guilty; when we know the kindly nature
The ones deserving least the anger or mistrust or disbelief we put to those.
If only we could skip our time and reverse the moments of regret,
But time is time and no redoing of the mischief made will make amends.
We only hope a balance will be portrayed in later reckonings to ensue,
Perhaps by heeding much we show, the phantom need make less demands?

Although we pain ourselves with being at fault, be steady with the rod
Not always is the misdeed so, but rather error, or a blemish, or a fear
From some unknown source, built too strong or weak to make us so, no less
A breach, a rent, a fracture in the ramparts fails our sanity,
That keeps us from discerning fragile anguish, guessing wrongly!
When we should search the hidden scepter that lies within our heart,
To throw, and show, the mighty robust universe we must defend so strongly.

It hardly needs to speak of childhood days when long and tedious times was had
Will test us sharply to the moments we swill our anger on those we love the most.
We often know they didn’t speak to radiate the worst upon us,
We forgive, we hope, on those we know are close enough to be of mind
So similar to our own, we know the talk; we know the gentle errant buzz,
The ones we pick to transfer the hidden meanings given,
But strangers meeting briefly day or night are not to know what your translation does.

Written by Roy Smith